


We Shall Rest on the Headlands

by afrikate



Series: The Curse of Natalis [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Mercy Thompson Series - Patricia Briggs
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Disabled Character, F/M, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 22:16:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7909648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrikate/pseuds/afrikate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1943, during a firefight turned ugly in the North African desert, Bucky Barnes is bitten by a werewolf. After capturing Barnes, Dr. Arnim Zola becomes intrigued with the possibilities werewolves present to Hydra. Unfortunately, one member of Hydra fails to read the instruction manual.</p><p>After escaping from Hydra in 1968, Bucky makes his way north and a local werewolf pack takes him in.</p><p>Set in the MCU and the Mercy Thompson novels by Patricia Briggs. Readers do not need to be familiar with the books in order to enjoy this story.</p><p>This is part 2 of a five-part series. Part 1 is already up, part 3 is in beta, and parts 4-5 are being worked on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Shall Rest on the Headlands

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to my wonderful, amazing, fantastic beta, [k8/paintedmaypole](http://archiveofourown.org/users/paintedmaypole/pseuds/k8). She pushed me to be a better writer, told me when I was overthinking things, and made me laugh really, really hard. Thanks so much, k8!

Boston, MA, August 19, 1986 

The room has dark wooden paneling on the walls. The heavy curtains are pulled back from the windows, revealing a rolling green lawn and the edge of a wrap-around porch. It's sweltering inside. Boston’s in the midst of an August heat wave and the room has no air conditioning. It makes the smells of old fires and wolf almost overwhelming.

Bucky’s wearing a collared shirt, left sleeve neatly pinned up over what remains of his left arm, because he’d wanted to make a good impression. He is deeply regretting this impulse now, sweating and miserable while he talks to Cal.

The Boston pack Alpha had insisted on an interview, even though they've met before and he'd spoken with Bucky’s references. Says he needs to hear directly from Bucky exactly why he wants to move here, what his expectations are. Bucky thinks that's bullshit, but, well. We all jump through hoops for things we want. Now, Cal’s sitting across from him, cool and collected in a t-shirt and shorts.

“Alan had a lot to say, when we talked,” Cal starts, and Bucky grimaces. He just bets his old Alpha had _tons_ to say about Bucky, about what kind of wolf he is and what kind of trouble he can cause. Cal leans back and folds his fingers over his belly. “Bran and Charles had some things to say as well.”

Bucky sits stiffly on the dark leather couch and looks Cal up and down. He’s a white man, short and stocky, and his light brown hair is cut short. The first time they’d met, he’d liked Cal, and he’s heard that he’s fair with his wolves. He squares himself up and says, “I’m sure they all had stories to tell.”

Cal gives a little smile, relaxes into his beat-up leather chair. “It’s your turn now, James. Tell me why you want to join the Olde Towne Pack. As long as you’re honest, we’ll figure out how to work together.”

“All right.” Bucky makes himself breathe in and out for a minute, gathering his thoughts, trying to relax. “When I arrived in Portland,” Bucky says, trying for a detached tone, “I was in pretty rough shape.” He grimaces, remembering his first walk through Portland, swamped by the smells of a city in the summer. “I had just spent a lot of time as a wolf, and,” he sighs, “I guess I was still sorting out how to be human again.”

Cal gives a nod and waves his hand. “Go on.”

“That’s when I met Alan and his family. His wife, Ayumi,” Bucky smiles, thinking of her. “She had some experience working with veterans.” He looks at Cal, holds his gaze for a minute before dropping his eyes. “I needed to be around other wolves, needed a Pack to be stable.” He can hear Cal lean forward in the leather chair. “But just as much, I needed to learn how to be a civilian again, and it was Ayumi who helped with that.”

He looks down, considers what to say next. He takes a breath. “I’m here because the Rose City Pack is family, but they’re never going to forget what I was when I arrived. They’ll always remember when I was broken.” He runs his fingers through his hair, newly short for this move. “I want a fresh start. I want to be a pack member who’s seen as an equal.”

Cal’s watching him carefully now, and he has the look of a predator. “And your hunt?”

Bucky bares his teeth. “I won’t lie, I want to get Hydra, want to find them and kill them.”

“And my wolves?” Cal asks bluntly. “What’s the risk to my wolves?”

Bucky leans forward. “Bran’s decided Hydra is a risk to _all_ the wolves. But I won’t hurt my packmates. And I’ll tell you before I make a move.”

“Well, then, James,” Cal stands up, walks to the center of the room. “Those are promises I will hold you to.” He gestures for Bucky to rise, holds out his hand. “Tonight we’ll have a ceremony under the moon. But for now, welcome to the pack.”

 

* * *

 

Portland, OR, August 20, 1970 

They walk silently through near-deserted streets, many workers gone home for the day. There are quiet sounds of traffic, of ships, and underneath is the river. The shush of it sticks in their ears, thick smell of it in their nose. They are on a narrow street when they hear the noises, turn into narrower alley, find the girl struggling to fight off a group of young men by herself. Instinct drives them to step in, to protect, and it is easy to draw one of their knives, to thrust and kick, until the men scream pain and fear and anger, leave fleeing. The girl smells of fear and fresh blood, and they do what they can to look like not-a-threat. There is hesitation, the girl still afraid, but after a minute, two, she stands up tall, shakes her hair back from her eyes, says, “Thank you.” Lets them escort her through the streets, pacing beside her to warn off any other predators.

Now, they stop just inside the doorway of the large echoing space, too bright, too many people. They stand where it is easy to turn, to slip out quietly under the noise that hurts their ears, back to the lengthening shadows outside. Until they stiffen, scenting wolf here, at least one other, and they scan the room. Find a man, tall with dark skin and dark eyes, dressed like the others in casual clothes, but standing wolf-still, staring at them.

The other wolf is standing behind a table, with those who are serving food. The words ‘chow line’ slide through their head, do not stick. The other wolf speaks to those who stop in front of him, dishes up food, but keeps his eyes on them. The girl is moving closer to the other wolf, and they watch, careful, ready to attack. The girl is theirs to protect, for now, and they are not happy she is within reach of a threat. They are dangerous, they know, but other wolves are dangerous too, and the girl is so clearly at risk.  

Muscles tense, they observe the girl line up behind three others, pick up a tray, fork, and knife. She takes a plate, a glass, puts them on the tray, then gets food and water from the men and women standing close to the other wolf.

“Hi, Mr. Raymond,” the girl greets the wolf, who smiles at her, flash of bright teeth.

“Hi, Jilly,” the wolf says, voice soft, careful. “Who’s your friend?” the wolf asks, gestures in their direction.

They listen for the answer-- the girl looks back toward them and the wolf follows her gaze. The girl says.  “I don’t know his name. He helped me, um. With. There were these guys…”

The other wolf turns, attention snapping to the girl. The wolf takes in the dirt on her jacket, her scraped right palm where they can still smell blood. They tense, ready to rush, but the other wolf moves carefully, says with worry, “Jeez, look at you, girl. I’ll keep your tray back here, go get cleaned up.” Holds out his hand for her tray, asks, “You need bandaids or anythin’?”

The girl shakes her head, looks down, lets hair cover her face. “No, it’s fine, I’m fine.”

It is a lie, they can smell it from across the room, and the other wolf frowns, sends her off to the washroom.

They scan the room as the girl goes out. There are three long tables, benches on either side that could sit about 60. The tables are about half full. Mostly men, some women, a few families. They identify the ones that look like they’ve had training: a young Hispanic man with military-short hair, and an older white man, grizzled and bearded, with a knife tucked in the back of his trousers. They can tell when the other wolf’s-- Raymond the girl said-- attention returns to them. He is the only one here who could cause them difficulty in a fight.

They keep watch until the girl comes back, retrieves her food. The only true danger is the other wolf. They have three knives and a gun hidden under their clothes, and the food smells--

The wolf says, “Hungry.” The body forgets, sometimes, what that is.

They go forward, stand in the short line, pick up a tray, watch the workers put food on a plate. They do not speak, but no one seems to ask it of them. The other wolf-- The other wolf gives them three slices of something that smells of meat and tomatoes, and nods. They… nod… and continue down the line.

The seat they take is the most defensible one available, back to a wall, view of the entrances, the windows. But their shoulders itch like they can feel eyes watching. They want to sit in a corner but that would be… not… normal? Instead, they keep looking, watching for the threat.

It comes when the other wolf approaches. He is moving slowly, careful to circle around so he approaches from their right side. He sets a tray in front of them on the table, more of the meat, some potatoes.

“You look hungry,” he says. “Can I sit?”

They consider. The wolf isn’t too worried, but they flip the fork anyway, ready to use it if necessary, then nod.

He’s a big man, takes his time easing down onto the bench. Keeps his hands where they can see them at all times. Smart.

“My name is Frank Raymond,” he starts, voice low so it doesn’t carry. “I’m a member of Portland’s Rose City Pack.”

He stops like a response is required. After a pause, they nod again.

“Where are you from?”

They aren’t sure how to answer that. Memory is… porous. There. Gone. No pattern they can discern. They grasp for--

“New York,” they manage.

“Long way from home,” Raymond observes, and they nod because that seems… true. As true as anything ever is.

“You looking to stay here?”

“Maybe,” they answer slowly. And then, “We need… Pack.” This is what the wolf has been saying for… a long time. Constant refrain. It recites this at night as they fall asleep and it reminds them when they wake. The answer to everything, according to the wolf. The man… isn’t so sure.

“We?” Raymond’s asking, “Are there more of you?”

“ _Nyet_.” And then he notices confusion, takes a breath, tries to sort out the words, make the right ones come. “No. Just us… the wolf. And me.”

***

When they arrive at the house, another wolf, “the Alpha,” Frank Raymond tells them, wants to put them in a cage. The Alpha directs them to a lower level and a room that looks benign at first, but they can smell steel and silver in the walls. Both he and the wolf balk. “No,” they say together, “no more cages.”

They turn back, ready to fight past the two wolves, reaching for the knife at their back. They have escaped before and they will escape again.

Frank Raymond has his hands up, backing away to give them space. The Alpha stays close, speaks with power that makes them want to submit, but the man knows, knows what it will mean to submit, knows what that will bring. He names these things as he brings the knife up between them.

“No more cages, no more chemicals, no more experiments. We will not go back,” they tell the Alpha. The man speaks for the wolf, frantic in their head. The wolf howls betrayal and the man is listening, ready to leap, to fight, to kill if they need to.

It is loud. The Alpha is speaking orders which they are fighting. Frank Raymond is saying other words and then-- There is a whistle, high pitched and terrible, though they do not drop the knife to cover their ears. Then there is another voice, female, and it says, “We are not going to put you in a cage. There will be no experiments. The room is for wolves with no control.”

She says this, walking down the stairs, hands held in front of her to show they are empty. She does not smell like wolf. Her voice is a little rough, not the too-beautiful voice from dreams and memory that told them things that were not true. She is small, with features that call to mind-- with features that seem similar to the Alpha, brown eyes, lids with an epicanthic fold, small nose, small mouth. Her voice is not small, it is steady and calm and she walks around Frank Raymond though he tries to block her. She stands next to the Alpha. He is tense, tight-strung like a wire, and there is fear in his scent. Killing the woman would hurt the Alpha. They keep the knife up and do not step back. They will not kill the woman unless there is no choice.

(There has been no choice.)

“I can tell you have control,” the woman says. “You can smell the silver and you know knives.”

These things are true. They know them and she believes them.

“My husband,” she puts a hand on the Alpha’s left arm, “is cautious because we have children. But if you have control you are no risk to them and we can talk in his office.”

Children, they know, must be protected. A father will protect young and a cage should be used for things that are dangerous. They are dangerous. They have control. The wolf… is willing to trust the woman. The man is… The man is worried that he is not worthy of trust. In the forest there were no children, no small ones to hurt, only prey and other predators. In the forest they woke screaming, already running. Children must be protected. But they are already awake.

He lowers the knife, though he does not put it away. He takes a breath, watches the Alpha. “We are not safe for children. But we cannot stay in a cage.”

The words make the Alpha tense. The woman says, “How can we make it safe for the children?”

The man says, “Children are unpredictable. They move too fast.”

The woman nods. She keeps herself still otherwise, posture still open. “The office is down the hallway and the children are upstairs.” To the Alpha she says, “Layla is watching Minako, they’ll be okay for a while.”

The Alpha says, “Ayu…” in a voice that indicates displeasure.

However, he doesn’t try to stop her when she says to them, “The office door is down this hallway, please follow me.”

Then she turns her back to them. It is… trust. To turn her back on a creature with a knife. Even if there are two other wolves, they know they could reach her, break her neck before the others could be there. It is  shocking.

She walks first and then the Alpha follows. He looks back often and stays between them to protect the woman, Ayu.

Frank Raymond watches them, then says, “After you,” politely, and gestures slowly for them to walk behind the… Ayu and the Alpha.

They do, though they do not like someone at their back. The wolf makes them not look back, so as not to show fear to Frank Raymond.

In the office, there is a desk and three chairs, one behind the desk and two in front. There is a short couch, room for two people to sit or a small person to lay down. The woman sits on the couch and the Alpha is with her, close. Frank Raymond turns the chairs in front of the desk around to face the couch and sits in one. The man cannot sit in a chair. Chairs are not… They pace and the Alpha looks unhappy. They could stand but the wolf says no. The could sit on the desk but the wolf says no. They sit on the floor. The wolf says no to that also but the man decides for them. Sit on the floor. Back to the wall, close to the door, empty space around them. Easy to jump up. Ayu looks unhappy. Frank Raymond’s mouth twists.

“My name is Ayumi Higuchi,” the woman says, before the Alpha speaks, though he is opening his mouth. “My husband is Alan Higuchi.”

The Alpha turns to look at her, and for a minute they speak without speaking. Then he says, voice sardonic, “Thanks, honey.” He turns to them. “As my wife says, I’m Alan Higuchi. I am Alpha of the Rose City Pack. You’ve already met Frank, my second. What’s your name? Do you have a pack?”

They are thinking. Men have names. They are part man. “The name is…” the name comes from the same place inside them New York came from, “James.”

They say, “We have no Pack.” But they are uncertain. There is  a memory of running under a full moon, furry bodies surrounding them, crying the hunt. Men huddled near a fire, snow and tents, and they are standing watch.

“No pack now,” they say, because that is truth. Truth can be trusted, now there are no chemicals and no-- They whine, and move further from the chairs.

The Alpha has a line between his eyebrows and his mouth is pursed. They can smell unhappiness from the Alpha and Frank Raymond. Ayumi Higuchi smells of salt and anger.

“Do you know how you lost your arm, James?” asks Ayumi Higuchi.

They remember-- falling. Rocks. Snow. Pain. Rage. The scent of silver burning biting flesh and the sound of a saw against bone. Then, they are on their feet in the office, the knife is out, and the wall is at their back. They shake their head. Ayumi Higuchi is holding the Alpha’s hand in a grip that is too tight, fingers gone white with pressure.

They say, “Your hand.” When Ayumi Higuchi looks a question, they wave their hand at where her fingers grip. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Ayumi Higuchi takes a breath. They watch the air go in her nose and out her mouth. Her fingers flex. “Thank you, James,” she says. And then, “Does your arm hurt you?”

It’s a strange question. “I am functional,” they say. The man doesn’t look at what is left of their left arm. The wolf knows they can defend themselves.

The Alpha says, “Frank tells me you are looking for a Pack. Is that why you’re here, James?”

“Yes,” he says.

“In a Pack,” says the Alpha, “the human must control the wolf. If they cannot, then they are a danger to the Pack.”

“Alan,” says Ayumi, warning. She smells unhappy.

“He needs to know the truth, Ayu,” says the Alpha.

They nod. Truth is important. They must know how to be Pack. They say, “Without Pack, we will…” they pause, frustrated, words do not come easily. “There will be no man. Only wolf.”

“Yes” Frank Raymond says. “That can happen. Werewolves belong in packs, or most will go crazy.”

That is a word they know. “We do not want to be crazy.”

The Alpha is frowning. He says, “I need to discuss this with my second. You can stay here tonight, I will show you the room.”

They are not eager to spend the night inside, but it is raining. Ayumi Higuchi says, “The room is warm and dry, James. And tomorrow we can talk about you staying.”

She says it with confidence, though the Alpha narrows his eyes. Again they speak without speaking. This time it is Frank Raymond who says, “Let me bring you to your room.”

***

The room is small. There is a bed and a chair, a table with a lamp. Frank Raymond leaves a pile of clothing that smells of plastic not people. Then he leaves the room.

They sit on the floor in a corner, listening. They hear house noises, creaking, upstairs a low murmur and the sound of children.

Eventually, there are three sets of feet on the stairwell and the sounds go quieter. They wait in the dark until the house settles, no sounds. Then, they move silently through the house, the way they were trained, so even wolf hearing does not catch their footsteps. Eventually, they hears the Alpha and Ayumi Higuchi’s voices.

“--must call the Marrok,” they hear the Alpha say. It is a word they do not know in any language.

“Can’t we wait?” Ayumi Higuchi says, and her voice sounds worried, upset. “James can’t get better if he is dead.”

“But if he’s dead, he can’t kills us in our sleep,” says the Alpha.

Ayumi Higuchi makes a noise and says, “He won’t do that anyway and you know it.”

The Alpha says quietly, “I just don’t want him to hurt anyone.”

They think this is a goal they share with the Alpha.

 

* * *

 

Portland, OR, November 1970 

His Alpha and Ayumi Higuchi have asked him to come to the office. His Alpha tells him, “The Marrok and his sons need to talk to you. Since they control all the packs, they must assess any risks, threats to our safety.”

James nods. “Interrogation.” The man knew that. “32557… James--”

Ayumi Higuchi looks horrified. “No, James. Just talking. _Not_ an interrogation.”

“You have to answer their questions honestly, though,” says the Alpha. ”They can smell a lie.”

Ayumi Higuchi is clever. “Sometimes the answer is ‘I don't know,’” she tells him.

They know a game about truth. “The truth isn't all things to all people all the time.” Where did they learn that?

***

Later that day, Ayumi Higuchi takes the children outside, even though it is raining. There are three new wolves, and his Alpha invites him into the living room, where James rarely goes.

The other wolves are all sitting in chairs and ask James to sit as well. They do not like chairs, shy away, but there is a sofa. James sits on the edge of it, wary.

"Do you know who I am?" the smallest one asks, sitting forward in his chair. Small but, the wolf wants to roll over. To show his throat. This one is a Power.

They say, “You are the Marrok."

The Marrok smiles gently. "And do you know what that means?"

"King," says the man. "Alpha of Alphas," says the wolf.

The Marrok looks at them intently, like they have done something interesting. Sometimes the doctor had looked like that. James edges away, far as the sofa will let him.

"You may call me Bran,” says the Marrok, and gestures to the men on either side of him. “These are my sons, Samuel and Charles."

"Jury and executioner," the man says. Samuel does not look pleased. Charles’ expression does not change.

"Samuel is a healer," says Bran. "Charles has a unique relationship with his wolf. I want their opinion. You are a puzzle, James, and I must decide what to do with you."

"If you will kill us."

"Us?"

"The wolf. And. The Man."

The Marrok nods. "Yes, James. That is an option.” He opens his hands palm up. “There are several options."

James watches carefully, eyes moving from Marrok to Charles to Samuel. "What options?"

"Whether you should stay here,” Bran gestures towards his Alpha. “Or, go to another pack." He waves to the window, to the outside.

This is astonishing. "Layla and Minako are here."

Bran leans back in his chair. He smells like a question, so James explains. "Children must be protected."

"Is that what you do, James?" Samuel asks.

Samuel is a healer. That is something like a doctor. They want to back away, but stay still. A childish voice in his head says, 'Plant your feet on the ground, put up your fists, and say "You move."'

"They are small," he says. "We protect the young ones," says the wolf.

Bran nods, then waves a hand toward him. "The marks on your left arm."

James looks, though he knows what Bran is asking. "There was metal."

"Metal?" Bran cocks his head, eyes bright, staring intently.

Samuel stirs in the chair beside Bran, and James shifts his gaze, watching warily. "Those marks come from silver, Da," says Samuel.

James tries again. "We had an arm. First flesh, then metal. The metal." They wait, and then the wolf says, "the metal hurt. Heavy. Good for killing. They trained us."

Samuel's face gets darker, and he smells faintly of rotting eggs. James stands, right arm up, ready to fight.

Bran holds up a hand, shakes his head. "James, he is angry because someone hurt you," he says gently.

"Why?" asks James.

Samuel gets up abruptly, chair scraping the floor. He leaves the room, stinking of rage like sulfur.

Charles speaks for the first time. “Who gave you a metal arm?”

James watches Samuel go, turns back to the others. “Small. Glasses,” says James, but he is frowning, mouth twisted.

“Smelled wrong,” says the wolf, definite.

“Smelled wrong,” echoes James. “Chemicals, silver, knives. Made us see-- Yellow hair and blue eyes. Orders to kill.”

Charles is watching, but does not move. James watches back, but there is no scent of rage.

“Ours?” James asks, voice trailing up in a question.

“No.” The wolf is certain. “Eyes lie.”

Bran exchanges a look with his son, “Eyes can lie, yes. Who did they make you see?”

He remembers-- “Yellow hair and blue eyes.” Closes his eyes, tries to remember the right scent.

“Dead,” says James.

“Dead,” mourns the wolf.

“We did not kill him.” The man is a little unsure.

“Dead,” whines the wolf again, a high, mournful moan.

Bran looks up at them, and they bow their head, let hair cover their face. They wish to hide but there are no hiding places here.

"Do you think that the people who held you will try for you again?" Bran asks mildly.

James watches from beneath his hair, slowly sinks down to perch on the sofa again. "I think they are people who won't stop. They will come for us. Or for others."

If Bran was in wolf form his ears would be up. He looks like he is scenting a hare. "Others."

As James considers, the wolf says, "They kept us for many years. We were a prize."

“We?” Bran narrows his eyes.

"The wolf and the man," James says.

"If they could keep one, why not many?” The wolf asks. “Wolves to do their bidding. Wolves to kill their prey." He is growling, angry thinking about it.

"Others have tried," Bran tells them. "Some have even succeeded for a time." Bran bares his teeth. "They always regret it in the end."

 

* * *

 

Portland, OR, October 9, 1972 

James sits with Layla at the big wooden table before dinner. Weak watery light filters into the room from the windows that look at the backyard, and he uses his right hand to trace the light on the grain of the wood. He is watching Layla is do her homework, but Minako is impatient, standing next to her sister and tugging at her shirt, whining at Layla to come play.

“I have to do my homework, Min,” Layla says. I can play with you after.”

Min’s little face is frowning, and her voice gets louder, her hands grip Layla’s shirt tighter. “You’re taking too long!”

“Here,” Layla says, ripping a page out of her notebook. It makes a strange zipping sound, the rip of the paper against the metal binding. “Come sit next to James at the table and you can practice the alphabet.”

Minako’s lip quivers, but Layla holds out the paper patiently, until Minako scrambles into the chair between James and Layla and grabs a crayon. She shouts, “Okay, but James too. James, you need to do homework too!”

“Min!” Layla frowns. “You know what mom says!”

Many times, James has heard Ayumi say very firmly that the girls must not give him orders, that they must ask. He looks at Min, whose bottom lip is quivering. Smiles a little so she will not cry and says quietly, calmly, “I'm not in school.”

Min looks up at him, reaches out with her left hand to take his. She’s careful this time, like Layla and her parents have coached her. “Do you want to draw something?”

Layla adds, “James, you don't have to do anything, but I'll give you some paper if you want.”

James watches the two little girls, tiny Min with her chubby fingers wrapped around a crayon, Layla with her eyes wide and dark. Finally, he says, “Paper. Please.”

Layla tears out another page from her notebook, making that same zipping sound. Min hands him a pen from the pile on the table.

The page full of light blue lines, but otherwise blank. He clicks open the pen, makes a vertical line, the start of a word, though he doesn't know what. The paper skids away from him, and the table has a mark from where he presses too hard with the pen.

“Oh!” says Min.

Layla says, “I forgot!” and crosses the room to the big buffet where the dishes are stored, comes back with a clipboard.

She clips the paper in for him, and he tries again. This time he leans over and rests what remains of his left arm against the side of the clipboard. He writes Layla's name, then Min’s, first in English script, then in Japanese characters. He writes, “the wolf is angry,” though right now the wolf is merely restive.

He writes while Layla does homework. Min draws, until she gets bored, and then he takes her to the yard. They play wolves until the light fades. Min like to growl and pretend to hunt squirrels and birds. James pretends to be a bird pecking the ground for worms. He stays quiet and still so she can sneak up on him, then say “Grr,” and grab his leg, shouting, “I got you, James!”

After the girls go to bed, Ayumi brings the clipboard and the paper to him.

“James,” she says. She is standing just outside the doorway to the bedroom where he sleeps, waiting for him to invite her in or ask her to leave. James gets to choose even though it is hard, even when he does not want to.

“Come in,” James says. He sits on the bed and Ayumi takes the chair at the desk.

“I think this is yours,” she says, handing him the clipboard. “I added some more paper underneath,” she adds, as he takes in the greater thickness.

James sets the clipboard down and runs a thumb over the paper. There are many sheets, some with little blue lines, some blank white, some yellow, some pale green. He looks at Ayumi, puzzled.

“But I don’t have homework,” he says.

That makes Ayumi smile. “When you were writing with Layla and Min, how did it make you feel?”

Ayumi likes to ask about feelings. When James can’t name them, she helps. She gives him new names, descriptions. It’s hard work, though, and tonight he’s tired.

James says, “I don’t know.” But he thinks about it, the pen in his hand and the smooth flow of ink, the jagged way some of the letters looked, how the kanji for Minako’s name was perfect.

Sometimes, Ayumi calls him on his bullshit. That is what she says, “James, I am calling you on your bullshit,” and he knows he has to say the feelings words, or make a choice, or go and ‘walk it off.’ Tonight, though, Ayumi says, “Some of the guys I work with find that writing helps. They can put things on paper that they can’t say out loud.”

He nods, watching her watch him. She looks tired, the lines around her eyes and mouth are deeper today. Her hair is messy and it looks like Min tugged on it. Sometimes Min tugs on his hair too, when she is playing and can’t be gentle.

“I’ll leave you the paper, and here are some pens.” She turns to the desk and opens the shallow desk drawer to show him. The pens rattle against the wood of the drawer; the noise sets his teeth on edge. “There are different color pens and different kinds of paper.”

James looks down again at the clipboard, runs his thumb over it again.

“You can write whatever you want, whenever you want,” Ayumi says. “I won’t read it and neither will Alan. I’ve asks Layla to do the same, but she’s young, so she may slip up. Remember,” she says, putting her hand out to tap his hand, moving slowly enough he doesn’t startle, “If she asks a question you don’t want to answer, just say--”

“I can’t talk about that now,” he says. They have practiced that one a lot. It is close to a lie, and occasionally Alan makes him talk about things, ‘for his own good,’ but here, he is allowed to be quiet. To have peace.

He looks again at the paper, then up at Ayumi’s face, short dark hair framing her fair skin. “Thank you, Ayumi,” he says.

“James,” Ayumi says warmly, “You are entirely welcome.”

***

He leaves the clipboard on the desk that night and all the next day. For one, two, three days, James deliberately ignores the clipboard. A little bit, just to show he can. That it’s not an order or command. That writing will be his choice, not something imposed.

No one asks him. Alan, Ayumi, Layla-- none of them ask if he has used the clipboard, the pens. There’s no demand he do so. It is entirely his choice.

On the fourth day, he’s sulking in the bedroom. That’s what Ayumi would say if he were Layla or Min. Because he is an adult, they say, “James is having a difficult day,” and anyone who comes to the house leaves him alone.

Really, he doesn’t know if he wants to be alone, but he also can’t bear to be around people. It makes him itch, like days before the moon. He would shift, but Ayumi has said many things about avoiding his feelings, so he does not.

He scrabbles in the drawer for a pen, takes it and the clipboard to the bed, sits with his back against the headboard, knees up. His fingers know how to curl around a pen and he doesn’t know how or why. Did he learn as a baby, like Min? Did they teach him, like they taught him to kill?

That thought makes him grip the pen hard enough to bend it, the soft plastic curving. It doesn’t-- quite-- break. He rests it on the bed, runs shaking fingers through too-long hair that makes him look like “a damn hippie.”

When the shaking eases, he tries again. He picks up the pen and puts it to paper. He writes:

 

> _My name is James. I live with Ayumi and Layla and Minako and Alan._

Putting Alan’s name last feels like a small act of rebellion.

He writes the current date and the date he arrived in Portland. Then he writes the things he knows are true:

 

> _I am a werewolf. I am a killer. I will protect Minako and Layla and Ayumi. I have blue eyes. I have lived too long._

The script weaves in and out between English and Russian and Japanese, but all of it is his. When he finishes, he feels… calmer. Calm enough to put down the clipboard and the pen, to stand and walk downstairs-- past several pack members, Alan, and Ayumi--  put on his boots and go out. He walks: the perimeter, the neighborhood, further. He walks until the noise in his head diminishes, and he can sit in the park and watch children play and be at peace.

***

The writing starts as a way to calm himself-- to drain some agitation. But it also works to keep a record. Dreaming and waking, he remembers things, fragments. He is not sure he wants to, but the things are his and he wants them. Wants to know who he was before he became a killer. Wants to know who he killed.

He writes in the evenings before bed, the steady accumulation of things remembered or half-remembered or perhaps remembered, the things that wash up from the holes in his brain. Things like: 

 

> _Blue eyes_
> 
> _A story about the Green Man_
> 
> _Dark skin and white teeth_
> 
> _The smell of cordite_
> 
> _The feel of straps on wrist, across forehead_
> 
> _The sound of a skull shattering in a metal fist_

Sometimes after writing, he goes out for another walk. Sometimes, he goes downstairs and Ayumi makes cocoa and talks about inconsequential things. Sometimes, he dreams.

 _It is grey and there’s a fog that does not lift. He trips, falls, sprawls, and when he feels his way up his right hand closes on mud and his left on an arm, cold. His eyes, peering in the grey light pick out the shapes of body after body. One has blue eyes, staring sightless at the sky._ He wakes screaming.

 _It is bright sun beating down hot, and he is lying on a roof with another boy, and they are listening to the radio from downstairs, announcing, calling balls and strikes, and then “Look at it go, it’s another run for the Dodgers!” and they are cheering, cheering._ He wakes too-warm, smell of creosote in his nose, his throat.

 _It is nighttime and he is sitting away from a fire. Beside him is a big warm body, pressed against his side, arm around his shoulder. The man turns, presses a kiss to his cheek, says, “Buck.” The dark retreats a little more as they sit together_. He wakes with tears slipping down his cheeks.

***

He fills all the paper, front and back, handwriting sometimes cramped and crabbed, sometimes huge and looping, always a mix of languages, scripts, until he is forced to tell Ayumi, “There is no more paper.”

They are in the kitchen, and he is helping make lunch. He is very good at cutting vegetables, making them perfectly even. Ayumi is starting the water to boil for noodles. She looks over to him, standing at the counter, and nods. She only asks, “What kind did you like best?”

“I don’t--” he stops. “The green one with no lines,” he says. “And a blue pen.”

Ayumi smiles at him, the soft smile she gives to Layla and Min. “Ok, James. I’ll pick some up today.”

When he returns from walking Layla home from school, there is a packet of 500 pages of paper and a bag of 20 pens sitting on the desk, waiting.

 

* * *

 

Portland, OR, July 25, 1975

Today he moved from the Higuchis’ house to a small building on their property. Alan and Todd, one of the newer pack members, help with the move. Min, now seven, asks to move with him and Layla giggles while Ayumi tells a pouting Min no.

James follows Min up to her room, where she is slumped over the bed, sulking. “You can visit me every day, though,” says James, kneeling down to look at her.

“Pinky swear?” Min demands, lower lip trembling, sticking out her right hand.

“Pinky swear,” James says gravely, and shakes pinkies with her.

When everyone leaves it is quiet… quieter. They walk, he and the wolf, through their new home, just out of sight from the main house, testing entrances and exits. Then James unpacks his few things. Clothes, toiletries, books. The clipboard and jar of pens that live on the desk. The three-hole punch, sturdy and black, that sits beside them.  

Finally, he pulls out the binders. Three years worth of them, of everything he remembers. Ayumi bought him the first one, like she bought the paper and pens, and probably the damn clipboard. Whenever he finishes up the latest stack of paper in the clipboard, he punches it and puts it in a binder. Now he has pages and pages of memories and dreams. Hallucinations too probably. He thinks he must be nuts. Objectively, he probably is.

The little house has shelves where he can store the binders, but first he picks one up, pages through it. Eventually, he puts down the binder, still open, and picks up his clipboard. It’s filled with lined paper, clean and white. He writes what he knows to be true, starting like he always does:

 

> _My name is James. I am a werewolf._

 

* * *

  

Portland, OR, July 15, 1977 

Phantom fingers against his skin, stroking over his face, his chest, his… James turns over, burying his face in the pillows, chasing a familiar scent. He wakes up, hips pumping against the bed, and it's not enough. He rolls over in frustration, the wolf awake, a tight curl in the back of his brain. He thumps his head back once, twice. It's the third morning he's woken like this, too familiar and too alone.

That night James goes out, still a rare thing for him. He's not comfortable too far from the pack, but he needs… something.

He takes a bus, gets off and walks, following his nose. Ends up at building full of people, sounds of conversation and raucous music flowing out, scents of sweat and smoke, liquor and something sweet-sharp, something musky. He stands there for a while watching, but there's too many people and he can't make himself go in. Eventually he walks away, down streets nearby.

Eventually he finds a place that's smaller, quieter, although still has the scents of many people and sweat, alcohol, smoke. But it seems… less, somehow. Less busy, less loud, less… There’s little here to threaten him and the wolf is calm, if watchful.

They go inside, he and the wolf, and if the sound has become louder, it doesn't hurt their ears. The music is nothing he's ever heard “ _...must be fifty ways to leave your lover..._ ” He finds himself moving to it subtly. The room has some tables, and along the wall facing the door is a long counter with stools. Through a low doorway, he can see an open space and people moving together.

He first registers the threat-- people are staring, watching him, wary of him. It takes longer to realize that nearly everyone in this place is a woman, mostly white, many with with short hair, though not all, many in jeans and t-shirts, but not all. There is a lessening of sound and then an increase, like when Alan walks into a room full of wolves on a full-moon night.

He realizes that his shoulders have crept up to his ears, that his hand has made a fist, and he remembers what Ayumi has said about impressions. He should try to make good ones on new people, she says. The wolf is certain no one is a threat-- they might try to fight, but he would win. So he takes a breath, lets his shoulders fall, lets his hand unclench. Remembers that he chose to come in and he can choose to leave.

He walks human-slow to the counter, the bar, careful to touch no one when he reaches it, to sink into himself so he appears smaller, maybe. It is a thing he has done, sometimes, with the new wolves who are scared of him.

The woman behind the bar is taking orders and she glances up at him, says briskly, “What’ll it be?”

James leans forward and summons a smile, makes it sweet like he does for Layla when she is upset, and says, “May I have a coke, please?”

The woman’s eyebrows go up, and she looks him up and down, but she gets him a coke from the refrigerator behind the bar, popping the bottle top for him. “Here you go, buddy, it's 45 cents.”

He digs in the pocket of his jeans for the change he carries, hands it over. Steps back from the bar so a woman can brush past him, and she is… She smells sweet, a curl of scent that gets in his nose, reminds him of other women, wearing dresses, hair in careful rolls and red, red lips. He stands very still, until he is sure he can move without a difficulty, without knees buckling from the memories.

Slowly, carefully, he turns, finds a table. It’s small, in the farthest corner from the bar, one chair. The wooden surface is sticky when he touches it. He sits quietly, sips the drink, which is cold and too-sweet, the bubbles tickling his throat. Like the smells-- of sweat and cigarette smoke, lust and perfume-- it is familiar and it gives him faint memories of passing a bottle back and forth. He watches the other patrons, watches women laugh and drink and hold hands and one even leans in to kiss another and it is…

James is aware, of course, of the two white women moving closer. He can’t not be, he’s always aware of everyone, but until they say something to him, he can ignore them, let them slide into the background. But then one says, “Hey.”

She has short hair in a choppy cut and wears dark jeans and a white t-shirt. She’s got a broad chest and big hands, arms with some muscle. She says, “Hey,” again, louder, and plunks her glass down on his table.

“Hello,” James says quietly.

“What do you think you’re doing here, huh? We don’t want your type here.” The woman is belligerent, and he remembers big men who smelled of beer and shouted.

He wonders what type she means. Werewolves are a secret, even Min knows that, knew it as a baby. “What type?” he asks, confused.

“Men,” she barks. The woman with her, with longer hair and softer clothes, leans into her side.

“Louise,” the other woman says, quietly, eyes looking around and back. “We don’t need trouble, Louise. He’s just a vet.”

Louise is angry, though, and gets closer, fingers pointing at him. “This is our place,” she says angrily. “I don’t care who he is, he needs to get out.”

Others have started looking, started staring and James doesn’t like the attention. Too much, too many-- He makes himself stand slowly, carefully, when impulse would make him to surge to his feet. Makes himself leave the bottle on the table, not break it to make a weapon. Even so, the women back up.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, though he isn’t sure why. He turns toward the door, to leave, but he can’t, quite, make himself turn his back on Louise and her friend.

When he gets outside, onto the street, it’s cooler, quieter. He takes a minute to lean against the wall, to bend at the waist and breathe in and out.

***

When he gets home, he strips down naked before getting into bed. The smells from the bar linger on his hair, on his skin. He remembers the feel of the woman who brushed past him to get to the bar, the soft skin, the look of her hair against her face. The look of Louise’s companion, soft red hair brushing against her shoulders, the gaping neck of her t-shirt when she leaned into Louise, the curve of her breasts. He lets the memories of flowery perfume and bright red lips play across the backs of his eyes, lets his hand wander down, over his skin.

When he gets close to his groin, his hand stops, draws back, and so he lets it wander back up, to touch his chest, skim across his nipples. That feels good, and he touches there again, letting his fingers swirl around them, rub over them. He tries again to let his hand wander below his waist, and freezes, shakes his head. Finally, he stands up and retrieves his shirt from the hamper, puts it close to his face. Seeks out the scents of the bar, the clinging scents of the women.

He still can’t touch his dick, can’t grip it, though his palm knows the feel of it. Turns over to thrust against the bed, face buried in the shirt, mind seeking the red lips, a curved waist. Release takes a long time, and by the end he is exhausted, frustrated. He sleeps only a little while before he goes out to run.

***

If James isn’t sure why Louise wanted him to leave, he knows why he keeps going back. He follows the same route, orders the same drink, takes a seat at the most defensible table he can find. For the space of one coke, sips slow, he sits and watches, picking out details, smelling the warm scents of women and lust and smoke. No one else yells at him to leave; hardly anyone talks to him at all, except the bartender. On one night she says, “Honey, I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I think you’ll have better luck at the baths over on Third.”

He must look confused, so she says, “Try it. You can always come back here if this is what you want.” And then she gives him clear directions to a place only a few streets away.

At the entrance to the baths, they ask for money and in return give him a key, a towel, and flimsy sandals. They direct him back toward a locker room. He smells men and lust-scent, muskier and heavier than at the women’s bar. The rooms are dim, but his eyes are better than human. There are so many men, mostly white, mostly naked. Some wrap towels around their waists or their shoulders.

He watches carefully to see what others do, reluctant to take off his clothes. His left arm is weaker, scarred, distinct-- but no one stays clothed, many wet from the showers he hears beyond this room.

A man comes up on his left side, and he watches, wary. “This your first time?” the man asks in a solicitous voice.

James nods, and the man smiles softly, says, “Well, don’t be shy. We were all new once. It’s better if you just jump in.”

Slowly, James strips down and folds his clothes, careful and neat. He wraps the towel around his waist, slips the flimsy shoes onto his feet and walks down a dim passage, following the sound of water. The showers are open, men watching one another, looking up and down, some humming. One cocks a hip at another, then shakes his head, wet hair flying. Slowly, James slips off the towel and hangs it on a hook. He feels exposed as he steps quickly into the warm spray of water. There is no soap, so he rubs his hand over his stump, his chest, down lower. Touches his thighs, but can’t--

“Can I help you?” a man asks, stepping closer. He’s got dark hair, cut short, tanned skin on his chest, though it fades down further. He’s holding out his hand, washcloth in it, that smells--

James blinks, says, “No, thank you.”

After the shower, he walks down the hall, into a big room, hazy with steam and thick with lust-scent, men sitting on rows of benches. He chooses the emptiest corner and takes a seat. He lets his eyes adjust, feels the wolf uncurling at the back of his head. Looks across the room and there is… one man kneeling, face in the lap of another who is tugging on his hair and making low groans. There are similar sounds from others in the room-- wet, slick sounds of flesh on flesh, little moans, soft exhalations. He nearly jumps when he feels a hand land on his right thigh, right where the towel ends.

It’s instinct to grab the hand, to squeeze hard, until the owner says, “Jeez, man, don’t break my hand!” in a high voice. He lets go, but he can’t catch his breath. Stands abruptly, leaves the room. He leans against the wall outside while men go by, but no one stops and he pretends he is invisible.

***

That night, he gets home so late that the sky is lightening. He had wandered through the baths for a while and-- He touches his lips, which feel swollen. He makes his way to his bed and lays back fully clothed. He thinks of the smells of the bath house, the sounds as the men touched one another. The feel of lips under his. This time, when his hand wanders, he unzips his jeans and grips his dick, already starting to get hard. The skin of it is smooth and warm. He shivers as he runs his hand up and down, until he has to stop, pull away.

As the sun is coming up, he falls asleep. In his dreams there are firm lips under his, a hard chest against him. A hand pulls him tight, and he goes, happy to be held. He surfaces from the dream, hand on his cock, rubbing his face against the pillow, and when he comes it feels so good he nearly sobs.

 

* * *

 

Portland, OR, March 13, 1978 

Min is 10 years old now and she has long black hair she likes to wear in two pigtails. She’s in fifth grade and she likes to come to James’ little house in the afternoons to do her homework. She sits next to James at his kitchen table and she does math or English while he works on translations for professors at University of Oregon and Oregon State.

Today he thinks Min is doing history, but he’s working on a stubborn phrase in Korean, reviewing dictionaries and the text, so he’s not paying close attention to what she’s doing. Until she says, “Uh, James?”

There’s something in her voice that puts both he and the wolf on alert. They read the air quickly, but don’t smell or hear or see a threat. He relaxes a notch, turns properly to look at her, says, “What is it, Min?”

She has her textbook open in front of her, and she says, slowly, “James, is that… is that you?”

James looks over to where she is pointing, to the black-and-white photo of a group of soldiers, though their uniforms don’t match. The one in front is tall and broad, and behind him are four white men, an Asian, and a Black man. Bucky stares for a minute, seeing double. The picture, but also men with cameras as he stands, posing with the others. Tired and worn down, hungry like he always is a couple days to the full moon. He hears Jim saying something, some filthy joke, and watches Steve blushing while they laugh, and then the photographer says, “All right, gents,” and--

“James?”

It snaps him back to himself, gripping the table too hard, Min’s eyes round and big behind her glasses.

He takes a slow breath in, holds it, breathes out slow. Does it again. Makes himself loosen his hand.

“Yeah, Min, honey, I’m ok.”

She watches him a minute, then asks, “Can I give you a hug?”

James gives her a sidewise smile, says, “Yes, Min, I’d love a hug.”

He’s careful as he hugs her, cautious of his strength. Min is fierce, holds him as tight as she can.

“Let me look at your book again,” he says when she lets go.

Min bites her lip and wiggles in her seat. “You don’t have to if it makes you unhappy.”

“I know,” he tells her, “but I want to.”

“Okay.”

She turns the book, pushes it closer, and this time he’s only seeing a black and white photo in the glossy-cheap pages of her history book. There’s… there’s Steve, who looks brighter in his dreams, hazier in his memories. He’s standing on Steve’s left and Gabe is on Steve’s right. The others fan out on either side, Morita next to him, then Frenchie. Gabe followed by Dum Dum and Monty. They’d kept Gabe and Jim close, otherwise the photographers would leave them out.

He traces the photo with a finger and says, “Yes, that’s me.”

“And next to you,” she says, making sure she’s right, “that’s Captain America.”

James blinks. “I thought his name was Steve.”

“Yeah,” Min looks at him a little funny.“ Captain America’s real name was Steve Rogers. My book says he was a hero in World War II, that he saved us from Hydra.”

James stares at her.

“And Captain America’s best friend is Bucky Barnes.” Min pauses and looks at him. “James? Should I get Mom?”

James forces himself to pay attention, to see a little girl in too-big glasses, to see the green pattern of the curtains behind her, lying limp since the windows are closed. Forces himself to ignore the flood of memories.

“No, honey,” he takes a breath. “But, um, maybe I need a few minutes.”

Min’s watching him closely-- she knows what he looks like when he’s breaking.

“Why don’t you go home for dinner,” he says carefully. “I’ll bring your book back tonight.”

“Okay.” She slips off her chair and hovers a minute. “James, can I hug you again?”

James takes a breath, careful. “Not right now, honey.”

“Okay,” she says, and starts for the door, moving slowly. “I love you, James, ok?”

His smile feels painful and his can tell his eyes are wet. When he speaks his voice has gone deep and horse. “I love you too, honey.”

When he hears the door close and Min’s footsteps heading in the direction of the main house, he lets his fist clench. He puts his head on the table and lets the memories come, washing over him like the tide.

***

Later, Ayumi comes over. Bucky's not sure how much later-- when Min left it was still light out and now it's dark. He’s read the few paragraphs in her book over and over again, searched the index for any other reference. There is merely a photo, a mention of his name, and a description of how Captain America stopped Hydra. Of how Steve died.

He remembers… A man taunting him. Saying “The captain is dead, sergeant, why do you still struggle?” That's it, just that one sentence in Russian, echoing in his brain.

Ayumi says, “James?”

He wonders what's real.

“James,” she says again. It's quiet and calm, like it always is when she talks to him. “You are in your house on Pack land. You live in Portland and it is 1978.”

“I know,” Bucky says, because he hasn't lost time this time.

“What happened?” she asks.

Bucky is sitting on the floor in a corner of his kitchen, knees up, arms crossed, with his right arm on top. It's reasonable for Ayumi to ask. He scrubs his right hand through his hair before he looks up at her. “Steve’s dead.”

The wolf echoes, “Dead,” and it sounds like a howl.

She looks considering. “Did you just find out?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I knew, somewhere I knew. Somewhere the wolf knew. But I didn't… It wasn't real. Not as something I had to care about.”

Ayumi nods. “How did you find out?”

Bucky smiles a little. Min would have told her mother everything, but Ayumi never assumes. “I read it in Min’s book,” he says, nodding to the table. “And it made me… remember.”

“Remember?”

He wonders sometimes how she manages that tone, that invites you to tell her without ever demanding. “Yeah, I remember--” He stops, considers. It's not everything, he thinks, can't be, but, “a lot more than I did this morning. About, about the war. About Steve. About the rest of the Commandos.” He looks up at her, and he can feel the tears in the corners of his eyes. The loss feels fresh now.

Ayumi makes a noise, the one he's learned means she is hurting with you. “Do you want to be alone?” she asks.

“No.”

“Okay,” she says, and crosses the room to sit catty-corner from him. “I'll be here.”

He drops his head onto his crossed arms and listens to Ayumi breathe, while he and the wolf grieve.

***

Later, Bucky thinks that it’s kind of like when Min started talking. At first, it was just a few words, here and there. Then it was full sentences, one after another, demanding to be heard. It’s like seeing that picture of Steve is a fulcrum, and now he’s on a downward slide into memory after memory.

The worst ones, and so, of course, the ones that come the most, are of Hydra. Hydra cutting him open, breaking his bones, timing the healing. Hydra taking his arm. Training him. There are nights where he can’t sleep, when the memories just become nightmares and then become memories again. He shifts. He uses the wolf to blunt the memories.

Along with the experiments, he remembers the missions. Hydra never told him why, but when he remembers enough of the war, and of Johann Schmidt, remembers what was said in front of him, to him, remembers missions-- Well, it’s not too hard to see the shape of what they planned. What Hydra wanted. What they were willing to do to get it.

Underneath it all, he sees Steve. Small and big. He remembers the scent of him, how he was stronger when they’d been in the field for awhile. He remembers the feel of him when they were kids, Steve’s small body tucked under his as they sat passing a Coke back and forth. Steve's large body rubbing against him, the feel of Steve’s hands, pressing him close.

Every day one of the Higuchis checks on him. Often Ayumi, Layla, or Min. Sometimes Alan. Sometimes Bucky greets them, sometimes the wolf. But it’s nearly a month before the next time Bucky goes up to the main house.

Alan lets him in, leaning against the door and looking him up and down. “You’ve lost weight, James,” he says.

Bucky nods. “I need to talk to you, in your office.”

Alan looks surprised, but only says, “We’ll talk after you eat.”

It makes Bucky smile a little, lopsided. “Yes, Alpha.”

After a meal of Ayumi’s excellent chicken stew, Bucky follows Alan downstairs to the office, takes a seat on the couch.

“What is it, James?”

Bucky sighs, scrubs hand through hair, says, “I’ve been remembering and I think you should know some things.” He pauses, then continues reluctantly, “and so should the Marrok.”

Alan sits back, surprised. “The Marrok? Why?”

“I remembered about the people who had me and it has… larger implications.”

“For the wolves?”

Bucky grimaces. “To start with.”

Alan looks at him for a long time before he picks up the phone and dials.

“Alan,” says Bran when he picks up.

Alan’s jaw clenches, but he says only, “Hello, Bran. I’ve got James here. He’d like to tell you and I something.”

Bucky hears Bran warn, “I have Charles with me.”

“Charles is ok,” says Bucky, remembering their meeting years ago.

“All right,” says Bran, “We’re ready.”

Bucky is quiet a minute, gathering his thoughts. “I remember about… my captivity. Some.”

“All right,” Bran repeats.

“The people that had me were Hydra. Are Hydra.” He swallows. “They had me twice, once during the war and then again when I--”

After a minute, Alan asks, “When what, James?”

“When I fell off a train in 1945.”

Alan looks at him sharply. “What? We thought--” His jaw tightens and he looks into the distance for a minute. “Ayumi and I thought you served in Vietnam.”

It takes a minute to line up what he remembers, because in some memories there is a jungle, there are other Asian people, though they have small resemblance to Alan, to Ayumi. “In Min’s book, there was a bombing,” he starts slowly, “Pearl Harbor. I remember enlisting. It was cold, and there were lights up for Christmas.”

He pauses, lines up the memories. “There was a desert, and too much fucking sand. Later on, in Europe, there was a lot of mud.” He smiles, not seeing the room for a minute. “Endless fucking mud and I used my condom ration to keep my rifle barrel dry.”

Bran makes a small growl, Bucky remembers he’s not fond of swearing. “Sorry,” he says, ducks his head.

They are all quiet for a moment, and Bucky wonders what they are thinking. He’s remembering again, though, cold air and a small fire, tin plate and Steve smiling at him.

“Hydra,” says Bran, musingly. “Hydra was small, just a division of the Nazis, I think. A focus on science.”

Then Charles, it must be Charles, though Bucky can’t recall having heard him speak before, says, “Didn’t Captain America fight Hydra?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Steve fought Hydra.”

Alan is looking at him, eyebrows raised, expression disbelieving as he shakes his head.

Slowly, Charles says, “I read a newspaper article once about Captain America. It said his sergeant fell off a train to his death.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Didn’t die.”

“So Hydra was experimenting with werewolves,” Bran says, a growl under his voice.

“With me, at least,” Bucky says. He leans forward on the couch, running his fingers through his hair, stares down at the carpet, tracing the pattern with his eyes.

Alan sits up straighter, and it makes Bucky start. “Are you worried they could have others?”

Charles makes a humming sound, and Bran says, “James, you don’t remember anyone else, correct?”

“My memory isn’t exactly intact,” Bucky says. “I don’t remember other wolves, but they had other test subjects, I think.”

“All right,” says Bran. “So Hydra was a threat to the wolves, especially lone wolves, since they didn’t have a pack to watch out for them.”

Bucky shakes his head again, and Alan frowns at him, but he speaks up anyway. “It’s more than that, though. More than just a threat to the wolves.” He stands up, starts pacing in the small office, though he can see Alan’s irritation. “Everyone thinks Hydra ended in 1945, but I remember… I was theirs. Their dog to hunt.” Bucky sighs, “I killed a lot of people for them. I don’t remember all of it, but what I do? I think Hydra is still around, still trying to gain power.”

He looks up and Alan is frowning at him, eyes watching him like he’s going to attack, the way Alan used to when he first arrived. ‘Fuck,’ he thinks. Alan’s trust isn’t something he wants to lose.

Hmm…” Bran says. “And what does that look like? Power in the hands of this group?”

Bucky walks another circle around the room, trying to follow the thought to its conclusion. “Order,” he says, finally. “They want to bring order to society. No one out of step. All working to one purpose. Their purpose”

Bran sighs, and he hears the sound of pen on paper through the telephone line. “Society may have an order, but people are inherently _dis_ orderly.”

Alan smiles a little at that, gestures at Bucky to sit back down, pointing to one of the hard wooden chairs in front of the desk. He does, reluctantly. It’s easier to think on his feet.

“How,” asks Charles, “would Hydra seek to enforce order?”

Alan leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, looks at Bucky across the desk. “If James was an assassin,” he says, “then fear. Intimidation.”

“Do you remember who your targets were?” asks Bran.

Bucky sees blood, hears screams behind his eyes, there then gone. He doesn’t think he’s going to be able to sleep tonight. “No, they had a way to… take the memories. A machine. Chemicals.” He sighs, “I’ve been trying to remember, but it’s just snatches, pieces.”

“Do you remember anyone in particular?” presses Alan, “Someone leading the show?”

“Snatches of scent. Sounds. Voices. Nothing much coherent.”

Bucky’s wolf snarls, “The weasel doctor.”

Alan’s still watching him carefully, making the wolf want to pace again, though Bucky makes himself sit still.

It’s Charles who asks, “Doctor?”

“Small,” Bucky says slowly, “soft, with round glasses that covered his face.” Frustrated, he says, “I can’t remember his name, but he was there sometimes.” He looks down, trying to make the memory clearer.

“So, we have a group operating in secret, using fear and murder as tools. How will they proceed, James? Stay in secret, taking recruiting by force or guile as opportunity permits? Or will they come out into the open, become more bold?” Bran asks.

“No,” Bucky says immediately, and then stops, surprised at his vehemence. He continues, slower, “I think… Being out in the open didn’t work during the war. Schmidt was unsuccessful and the doctor… I think he would have learned from that.”

“So you saw him after the war?” asks Charles.

“Yes.” Bucky remembers a cold mocking voice. He shivers.

“So they would infiltrate,” says Bran. “Like a parasite.”

Bucky turns back to the phone, and Alan looks at him sternly. “When you arrived,” says Alan, “you spoke Russian, Japanese, Korean. One of those governments?”

“The doctor was European,” says Bucky, certain. “The others I remember were too, mostly.”

“A Soviet plot?” says Alan.

Bran makes a considering noise. “Everyone is worried about the Soviets, these days. Before that, Japanese and Germans. It feels too easy, and I don’t want us to jump to a conclusion. If what James is remembering is true, then it could be any number of blackguards.”

“Blackguards?” mouths Bucky.  

Alan gives him a look.

He hears sound of someone moving in a chair, elbows on wood. Bran speaks directly into the phone. “There is too much risk that such a group would take another werewolf. If they had James from 1945 to 1970, they had plenty of time to learn how to manipulate and use one of us.” He takes a breath. “Charles, you and James will work on this together,” decides Bran. “James will share his memories and you will hunt.”

Bucky’s wolf growls, “We will hunt, too.”

There is a silence, then Bran says, “All right, wolf. You will hunt too. But you must bring your research to me before you make a plan of attack. And there is no killing until I say.”

“Yes, Marrok,” says Bucky. The wolf is excited, eager.

“Alan,” says Bran. “Charles will come visit Bucky next week.”

Alan glares at Bucky, but only says, “He’s welcome, Bran.”

“Thank you, Alan,” Bran says, voice sounding amused. “And James,” there are teeth in his next words, “good hunting.”

***

It turns out that hunting means spending a lot of time at the library. It’s not that bad, Bucky’s often at the University’s library because of his translations, and he’s friendly now with some of the librarians. He and Charles spend a few days studying maps and Park Service records up and down the Western US, ruling out some areas based on the wolf’s hazy memories. Charles pulls old newspapers and microfiche from the late 1960s and they scan headlines and obituaries.

In the end, though, there are few options. Back at his house, Bucky looks at the photocopies they’ve got spread across the kitchen table, saying, “You know, I have to think they’d only go to the trouble of bringing me here for a high-value target.” He taps a page on the table in front of them. “I think this is it.”

The headline says, “Kennedy is Dead, Victim of Assassination.” The date is June 4, 1968.

Charles nods, “I agree. But that means they were confident enough to go after a US Senator, a presidential candidate. And having failed once, they succeeded eventually.” He looks up at Bucky, baring his teeth. “If they are aiming to shape a country, one death would not be enough.”

 

* * *

 

Portland, OR, June 19, 1985

Bucky remembers a conversation he had with Layla once, maybe her second summer home after starting college. She’d said, “It’s weird, you know, coming home.”

Bucky had been surprised. “Why do you say that?”

She’d smiled, a little sadly. “At school, I get to just be who I am now. At home, I’m either fighting to get people to see the grown-up me, or I have to step back into a different skin.”

He’d grinned. “And by people, you mean your parents.”

“Primarily, yeah.”

“That why you’ve been so irritable lately?”

“My skin feels itchy,” Layla had said, “like I’ve outgrown it.”

“I know that feeling,” Bucky had said, and hugged her.

He has that same feeling, of being in too-small skin, it’s been growing for a while now. He’d been chalking it up to the full moon, but now, it’s all the time, everywhere. Even with Ayumi, even with Min, but especially with Alan.

It doesn’t help that the trail has gone cold. Bucky hasn’t remembered anything new and neither he nor Charles have found anything concrete. It feels like he’s waiting, unable to take a deep breath. Trapped.

Sometimes, to get enough air in his lungs, Bucky goes to the baths or out to the bars where men and women drink and smoke and dance together. His favorite, the one that soothes the itch the most, is a rundown hole-in-the-wall-- concrete floors and spray-painted walls. Six nights a week the punk bands play, screaming voices and ripping guitars and angry backbeats. He loses himself in the crowd, jumping up and down, screaming nonsense lyrics, throwing himself into the music.

After, sweaty hair falling in his face and shirt sticking to his skin, Bucky  finds himself in alleys with the girls and boys who come to see the shows, sucking kisses into sweaty skin and sliding to his knees. He walks the girls home, hand resting in the small of their backs, declines to go inside with them. Some of the boys take a swing, after, stupid and angry for no reason, and he bares his teeth to make them afraid, make them show respect.

***

Alan knocks on his door one day, which is a surprise. About a month ago, Bucky challenged for the fourth position in the pack, and won. He and Alan haven’t talked much since then.

“James,” Alan says when Bucky opens the door, “can I come in?”

“Sure,” Bucky steps back, gesturing him in.

Alan walks over to the kitchen table, covered in library books and photocopies, and takes a seat. Bucky sits down across from him.

“You know Ayumi’s taking Min to look at East Coast colleges next month.”

It’s all they’ve been talking about for the past month, so Bucky just nods.

“I want you to go with them.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows, surprised. “Why?”

“Partly, because I can’t go with them, and I’m worried.” Alan smiles wryly. “Ayu thinks I’m being ridiculous, but even though the other Alphas know they’re coming, I’m afraid something will happen.”

Bucky can smell his fear, the truth of his words, and nods. “Okay.” Alan knows he’ll do anything to keep Min and Ayumi safe.

Alan raises his hand, says, “There’s more. My other reason has to do with you.” He smiles a little. “You’ve changed a lot since you first came here, and I think it might be time for you to move on. I want you to have a chance to see what your options are.”

Bucky stares at him. “How the hell--”

“James,” Alan says, “You aren’t nearly as much of a closed book as you imagine.”

Bucky glares.

“You’re acting like Layla did when she came home from college,” Alan says. “You’re ready for something new. If you don’t want to go back East, we can find somewhere else.”

“But I can’t stay here?” Bucky growls.

“Wolf,” the Alpha says. “Do you _want_ to stay here?”

Bucky stands so quickly the chair nearly falls over, paces toward his living room. “No, but--”

Alan says, “You can always come back.”

Bucky looks at him.

“This is your home, James,” he says. “Ayu would shoot me with silver buckshot if I tried to keep you out of here.”

Bucky laughs, Ayumi’s rants about guns are legendary within the pack.  

“Just go with Ayu and Min. See what your options are.”

“Okay,” says Bucky, giving in, “Okay.”

***

It ends up being Boston. New York is too much. Every sound, every smell seems to trigger a memory. At one point he can barely breathe. In New York, it’s Ayumi and Min who stand guard over him, rather than the other way round. And everywhere, everywhere is Steve, a phantom scent hovering just out of reach. Bucky is really god-damn glad when they leave New York.

Pennsylvania’s too rural, Jersey is still fucking Jersey. There aren’t any packs in Connecticut. But Boston-- it feels enough like home while not home, everything familiar but not overwhelming. And Cal, the Alpha, says, “I don’t give a fuck who you are. Can you fight? Then you’re fucking welcome.” It makes Bucky grin. That Min’s favorite school of them all is Mount Holyoke? Well, Boston seems almost serendipitous.

 

* * *

 

Portland, OR, August 23, 1985

He wakes from another nightmare, catching his breath on a scream. They’ve been coming in waves, one after another, for the past few nights, ever since they returned from Min’s college tour. This one was terrible, and he claws at the memory as he comes out of it, can feel that it’s important, has been sitting just at the back of his skull, out of reach. The voice had been saying, “Don’t worry, Sergeant Barnes,” and the accent, the face--

He forces himself to take a deep breath, in and out. Another. It helps, as he slows his breath, closes his eyes. Lets the dream float back to him, the dank scent of a damp place, the cold of concrete underground. The reek of his own unwashed body, the ache in the arm that’s no longer there. The voice, nasally, accented, and the face swims up with it too, now, the sharp features, round glasses, slack jowls. A different voice says, “But the arm, Doctor Zola,” and suddenly he can’t breathe. Eyes open wide as he brings his hand to his throat, gasping, and the wolf suddenly takes over, forces the Change.

The pain is shocking, and he loses himself to it. It goes on and on, but when it’s over, he’s still there, still himself. Stands up and shakes himself, the trots out to the kitchen, where Alan is sitting at the table.

“Are you ok?” he asks, and he smells worried.

The wolf cocks their head to the side, then nods exaggeratedly.

“Bad dream?”

Again, Bucky and the wolf nod.

“Alright, next time you decide to deal with a bad dream by shifting like a maniac, don’t wake the rest of us up.”

Bucky ducks their head, tucks their tail. He doesn’t protest when Alan grabs his ruff and pulls him close, rubbing hands over their fur.

Alan says, “I will miss you, James, even when you are waking me up in a panic.”

Bucky huffs a sigh, wiggles.

“All right. Do you want to come up to the house?”

Bucky nods again, and follows him out. When they get to the main house, he lets the soothing scents of the pack’s daily living flow over him. He follows Alan up the stairs, though he can tell that annoys his Alpha, and settles himself in front of Min’s closed door, curled up in a ball.

Alan looks down at him a minute, then sighs and says, “All right, wolf. Protect her.”

Bucky lets out a quiet snort. As if that’s even a question.

***

The next morning, Bucky’s awake when Min stumbles out of her door. She nearly trips over him, and then says, “James? You want to come downstairs and cuddle?”

He huffs, but stands up and stretches. He follows her down as she gets a bowl of cereal and settles on the couch, still in her pajamas. He jumps up once she’s sitting, careful not to jostle her and spill the milk. Min turns the TV to cartoons, ridiculous things that he doesn’t have to pay attention to, and then she carefully balances the bowl on her knee and buries her left hand into his fur.

***

Later, after he’s home and shifted back, he calls Charles.

“Hello?” Charles answers after a few rings, sounding breathless.

“I remember the name of the Doctor,” Bucky says, in lieu of a greeting.

“The one who captured you?” asks Charles, interested.

“Yes,” Bucky says, growling. “It’s Zola. Arnim Zola.”

“All right,” says Charles, “Let’s see what we can find.”


End file.
